Totem
by sinemoras09
Summary: The sins of a man and his only shield. Lunatic-centric. Gen. Angst. Spoilers for episode 16.


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The doors to the law library stick when he tries to open it, but it doesn't matter: he is on vacation. A regrettable and altogether unfortunate set of circumstances, but Petrov frowns and shuffles his papers into his briefcase, nodding politely as other councilmen smile and wave and head through the door.

xXx

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The visiting nurse tells him his mother's pressure is high today, so Petrov feeds her an extra dose of water pills and helps her to the bathroom. The door closes and he waits outside as she urinates, the sound of it tinkling against the bowl.

"At least her kidneys are good," the nurse tells him. Cheerfully, as if the fate of the world hinges on his mother's kidney function. Petrov stands mutely as the nurse pulls his mother up by the armpits and helps her with her pants. "If her legs swell up you can give her an extra dose of lasix. The doctor might want to add something else but I think her pressure is fine."

Petrov nods. The nurse finishes her exam; she records her vitals in her chart, which she keeps in a rolling tote-bag. Petrov looks and can see at least a half-dozen charts lined up for her other home visits: his mother, it seems, is no one special.

"I heard you're on vacation today," the nurse says. She finishes writing and zips up her tote-bag, heading toward the door. "Doing anything fun?"

Her eyes are brown. They crinkle slightly when she smiles.

"Nothing," Petrov says. The nurse makes a face.

"Well I guess everyone needs some time at home," the nurse says.

She leaves. Petrov watches, impassive at the doorstep as the nurse steps into the car, waving quickly as she pulls the car door shut. Behind him, his mother crouches and watches him with suspicious eyes, and as the nurse drives away Petrov wishes he's not at home.

The papers lie in quiet stacks on the table, waiting to be read. Petrov walks past them, instead counting out the pills and placing them inside his mother's pill sorter.

xXx

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There is a rhythm to his days that Petrov is used to following. At 7 AM, he arrives at the courthouse, rifling through the piles of court orders and criminal summons. He answers his messages and speaks with his secretary, who reads off his list of administrative duties before morning court.

But he is on vacation, so at 7 AM Petrov lies in bed and stares up at the wall. His face is taut and the scar across his forehead aches. There is a residual numbness where his skin had burned off, but today there are sharp electric pains searing across his temple. Gingerly, Petrov sits up and cradles his face in his hand, waiting for the pain to pass.

"Yuri!" His mother's eyes are wild as she knocks against him leaving the bedroom door. "I can't find your father's suit! Help me, please-"

"Father is dead," Petrov says, and he moves before he can see his mother's eyes.

In the mirror, Petrov traces the raised edge of the scar on his face, palm-print sized and borders streaking over his forehead and eyes. The makeup he uses is shamefully feminine: green cover-up to neutralize the redness; liquid concealer to match the color of his skin. He dabs the make-up on and frowns at the caked-on appearance of his complexion. He knows he isn't fooling anyone.

"Yuri," his mother says. "Yuri, are you done?"

Petrov snaps his compact closed.

The adult daycare is a pleasant place; oak trees flank the cheerful brick walls as its charges teeter about the courtyard with aides and walkers. His mother cries and shakes and Petrov is reminded why he usually has the visiting nurse take her, and silently curses himself for his momentary lapse in common sense.

Above him, there are birds. Flying high on a current, disappearing into the clouds.

xXx

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There is a little boy playing with a red truck. He pushes it against the iron railings, making motor noises and driving it along the concrete steps. A young couple shares a kiss, fingers clasping tight as the girl blushes and tugs on the boy's shirt.

"This is why we do what we do," his father once said. They were standing at the corner of the street, civilians walking past them like water around a stone. "Look at them, son. All of them, going about their lives. These are the people we protect. This is why we can't turn a blind eye."

He remembered how his father looked: large and warm with eyes that crinkled when he laughed. His father grinned and ruffled his hair and Yuri smiled and cuddled against his father's side, because he was still at that age when his family felt warm and safe.

The boy: he gets ice cream on his nose and the girl laughs and kisses it off. Petrov watches, silently counting the steps between them.

They will get married; they will grow old. The boy will hate her and hit her and the girl will curl up into herself and cry.

xXx

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They had called it an accident. Yuri had watched them as they heaved his father's body onto the stretcher. He was burned so badly no one recognized him; the coroner had to verify the remains based on dental records.

His mother would not stop crying. Not at the hospital, when the nurses tried bandaging her wounds, and not at the police station, where officers questioned her about his father's abuse. Yuri slept on a cot at the police station, curling up into himself as tongues of flame flared and lashed at his skin.

After his mother was hospitalized, Yuri moved from place to place, staying at a handful of relatives and foster families until he was old enough to stay on his own.

xXx

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Murderers do not deserve mercy. Murderers do not deserve to live. Petrov applied and got into law school, his nights spent feverishly pouring over text. Now he pours over treatises and jury summons, the same manic intensity spilling into his work.

He too will go to hell. But not before bringing the guilty ones down with him, too.

xXx

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"You sure don't like being on vacation, do you?"

The secretary laughs and offers well-meaning smiles as Petrov enters the courthouse. Somehow, things make more sense here.

The water runs. In the bathroom, he washes his hands, eyes flicking up toward the mirror briefly to check his makeup. His scar is starting to become visible, but it isn't terrible; Petrov straightens and reaches for the towel dispenser. The door swings open; he overhears someone talking outside.

"-I just feel sorry for him," someone says. Petrov stops, pushing the door open slightly. "Knocking around that house of his, with only his mother to keep him company. It's a wonder he hasn't gone insane."

"I bet he's lonely," the other secretary says.

The toilet flushes. Petrov frowns and lets the door close as the lawyer steps out by the sink. Petrov turns and focuses his attention back out the door, but the secretaries have already left, hitching their purses and moving away from the vicinity of the men's room.

The first time he killed-the first time after his father-he was already a junior district attorney. There was a man who raped and killed his girlfriend, but the evidence was thin and the jury decided to acquit him. Petrov watched, hands tightening into fists as the jury read the verdict: not guilty. Not even manslaughter. The defendant had a smug, superior look on his face, and Petrov thought of the victim, the hand marks on her neck and the contusions marring her skin. "It was rough sex," the defendant said, but Petrov knew better.

He didn't set out to kill. The black mark on his soul already ached; there was no reason to add to his suffering. But when he followed the defendant home-not so much to confront him as it was to _understand-_-rage spewed out in electric bursts, blue-green flames immolating the man in seconds. After the flames died down, it started to rain. Ash and mud swirled from the remains of the defendant's body, and Petrov put his hands in his pockets, the sleeves of his trenchcoat sticking with rain.

"I think he's lonely," the secretary had said.

It is not a feeling Petrov dwells on too often, but he remembers it acutely, the suffocating isolation, the weight of his sins bearing down on him even as the rain washed away every trace of murder from his body.

The secretaries wave and smile and Petrov smiles politely back, pushing the memory from his mind.

xXx

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He is walking to the library when he overhears a familiar voice: "Oi! Bunny! It's not like I broke the train on purpose!"

Petrov stops. Behind him, Barnaby and Kotetsu are bickering. He steps behind a column and watches. "Of course it was your fault," Barnaby says. "There was no reason to go charging in like that."

"_There was no reason to go charging in like that_," Kotetsu says, _sotto voce_. "Ha! As if you know the first thing about being a hero!"

"Evidently not, if being a hero means reckless destruction of public property," Barnaby says. He stops. "Judge Petrov," he says.

Petrov nods. "Barnaby," Petrov says. "Wild Tiger."

"Wha-how come you're not in your robes?" Kotetsu says.

"Idiot. He isn't adjudicating today," Barnaby says.

Petrov smiles.

xXx

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Maybe because he is on vacation, Petrov allows himself to follow the team to the restaurant, keeping a wide berth as Kotetsu loudly and obliviously proclaims the whole _injustice_of it all, the large chunk of his paycheck cleaved and earmarked for restoration of the public transportation system.

"Kaede needs new clothes!" Kotetsu says. Barnaby sighs and rubs his temple and Petrov quietly listens, picking up a tray and sitting a few tables behind them. "If I pay this fine I won't be able to send the money to her, and what kind of papa would I be, letting his daughter go to school in rags?"

"I'm sure she will be fine," Barnaby says.

Petrov stares at his plate. His vision blurs, then goes into focus again; the pain in his temple begins to throb.

"Mr. Legend would never let his kids go to school like that," Kotetsu says. Petrov's head snaps up. "If he had kids, I bet they'd be happy and healthy and not wearing their grandma's hand-me-downs."

"I'm sure they would," Barnaby says. Petrov stands. The chair skids hard against the floor.

People are looking at him. "Sir?"

Petrov pushes past them, shoving through the restaurant doors.

xXx

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His mother is strangely lucid when he picks her up: "Yuri, what's wrong?"

Petrov stops. His mother searches his face, touching his arm. "You're upset," she says.

"Get in the car," Petrov says.

They drive in silence. He helps her up the stairs and with her coat. Her nails are pink: evidently the daycare had a beautician visit today. "Yuri," his mother says.

"What?"

"What's wrong?" his mother says. She steps closer.

Petrov's jaw tightens. His mother raises a hand-fingers long and thin and skin creased and careworn like paper-before brushing back a strand of his hair.

"You were always such a beautiful boy," his mother says.

There is a warmth in his eyes, and Petrov hates himself for it.

A tear drips. His mother smiles.

In the bedroom, his uniform is folded neatly on the floor of his closet. The crack in his mask, repaired after Wild Tiger unceremoniously decked him in the face, is nearly invisible, and it's not until Petrov glances at the mirror that he realizes his makeup has completely rubbed off.

He undresses in the dark, pulling on his hero's outfit and fastening on his cape. The mask he pulls on last; he glances at himself at the mirror, face long and gaunt and the angry red scar marring the side of his face. Lunatic frowns then pulls on his mask, flexing his hands and casting a silent flame in his palm.


End file.
